The Messenger
by John Davis Collins.....© 2000 by John F. Clennan, All Rights Reserved
(for VFM to read after a harrowing day)
The white robed Great Prophet stood in the center of the circular pit face to face with the dark owled Messenger and laughed at the conjured soulless caricature.
From a high tier in the back tier with grey robed scribes I could look down at the twelve who were the tanish clad Council of the wise seated stone faced at the edge of the pit. They had ridiculed the old Great Prophet for his allegiance to the old ways. "Silly childish tricks, out of date," declared their spokesman Squire Victor who huddled with others of the Wise to force the Great Prophet to retire.
"Your Dark Messenger," the Great Prophet, pointing a boney finger protruding from under his robes, declared, "will destroy all that stands in his path and his report will be a trail of destruction." The Council of the Wise were unmoved by the challenge. The soulless creature they had conjured as their final insult to the Great Prophet stood silently by as their reproof.
The Great Prophet lifted his staff and vanished into a puff of blue smoke, which hung for a second in the glowing cupola above the stoned walled conclave before the fumes dissipated. The rod's clank fall to the cold stone floor reechoed until it too faded away.
Along the circular drop, Squire Victor rose and turned to his colleagues, but at the rim of their circle the Red robed chancellor affectionately called the Booming Voice, stayed firm and did not retrieve the fallen rod as protocol would have directed.
"Friends, colleagues of the Wise and brothers of this learned circle . . . I think we've had enough hocus pocus for one day," Victor proclaimed, "let us embark upon modernity."
The Council of the twelve wise filed out, followed by the scribes and the sky blue guard. No one had noticed the Dark Messenger slip away. As the Booming Voice retrieved the staff he called to me, in the emptied chamber, "Remember but do not record: who can become great prophet except by tokens of office?"
Yet if the Dark Messenger's escape had been forgotten his deed never would be. The temple soon rang with reports of the Messenger's defiling Grand Victory Plaza, his scorching of the tidal mud flats by the sea and leveling of the Sacred Grove by the sports plex where the old Grand Prophet used to ride the bolt of thunder to open spring games.
The Booming Voice retrieved me from my cubiclum to record the words of Squire Victor, our new Grand Prophet.
"No swallows from the mud flats, no sacred groves to release them in, let the scribe," the Booming Voice pointed to me, "record your instructions to preserve the peace of the realm."
Victor looked up to the dome. "Monuments to past glories and silly rituals to fish and birds and trees bind us to obsolesce and blind us to modernity. We in these silly robes" Victor looked at the white robe he has assumed, "are a laughing stock to the people."
"The people, Squire," the Booming Voice responded, "clamor to the Temple doors. What will you do when the Dark Messenger bursts the Eastern Gate to admit Barbarians from the sandy dunes into the realm?"
"Send the Army to defend the gates." Victor commanded.
"It is so recorded," the Booming Voice directed.
Grim news returned from the East. The Dark Messenger burst the gate and cost us a legion, but the Army or its remnants held the Barbarians.
In the cool stone chamber, the report that the Army held the Barbarians was received by an anxious Squire. The Booming Voice demanded "Whom shall we send against the Dark Messenger, who has turned with fury against Ponte Verte, the home of the scholars?"
"Order up the City Guard. Do you think me to be a soldier?" Victor gave his command and left the conclave.
"No," I daringly mock the breeze of Squire Victor's retreat, "We expected you to be like the Great Prophet whom you say you are!" I continued muttering my disgust as the Booming Voice requested I record the decree.
As I recorded the decrees of the Squire, I nervously laughed. "For once the old Great Prophet himself would chuckle. The errors and inaccuracies of the texts the scholars revered led to naught but teaching and writings wanting in authority. No loss, our Great Prophet might have said."
"Small wonder," the Booming Voice felt his chin with the palm of his hand. "One Great Prophet knew change should be confided only to those hands who understood the lore."
More ominous news invaded the temple preserve. The Dark messenger unleashed his fury on Porte Verde. Even the officials of the temple had started to slip away. When I lay down in my cubicle I wondered if by morning, I would be left alone to defend the Temple against the Messenger's wrath.
I was awaked by the Booming Voice who hovered over me like a vision. "Rise don these robes and follow me," the Booming Voice commanded.
I sat up and felt the silk robes of white. "Would there be still some who might mock this presumption?"
"Only a few true sky blue guards remain." The Booming Voice instructed. "All else have deserted the realm and left the temple to its fate . . ."
I hastily followed the Booming Voice to the golden door of the chamber. As the Booming Voice clutched the door in his hand, I hesitated. "I am a learned scribe faithful to my reports . . . Am I worthy to make semblance to power?"
"The last Great Prophet so believed yet feared the cowardly expert at dissembling might block your nomination. Thus the trick of magic be allowed the Wise to become the mark of his successor."
The Booming Voice threw open the gold door leading to the darkened circular chapel under its dome. A rush of chill air greeted me as I gazed toward the darkened cupola. Along the walls three of the sky blue guard remained.
The Booming Voice held the staff and demanded by whose power would I wield it. "In the name of the Counsel so long as all consent." I proclaimed the reply according to the time tested words and clutched the croziered cane and held it aloft toward the heavens. A bolt of lightening shot up to illuminate the dome of the darkened chapel.
"The people will be reassured even if little time remains," the Booming Voice looked to the light as he commented. "What are you plans, Great Prophet?"
The crooked cane felt like a weight that stretched every muscle in my shoulders. "The Great Prophet augured that the Dark Messenger will make report of a circuit of destruction . . . was it a curse?" I asked softly. "A prophesy," I asked in louder tone as the stone walls of the conclave reechoed my unanswered question. "A message?" I demanded of silent stone reverberating the quiery into different total qualities. "The question," I declared, " has answered itself! Booming Voice?"
"Great Prophet . . ." the Booming Voice addressed me.
"Throw open he gates of the citadel, clear the triumphal way. Let no one stand in the path of the Messenger."
I waited. I would feel the Messenger as soon as he started to trod inside the citadel. There were reports "crossed the open gates . . ." "no resistance . . ." "no destruction. . ." "advances on the temple. . ." "at the temple door. . ." I waved off the sky blue guards as they made their reports I would feel the clank of the Messenger's staff first against paving stone, then against slate, finally against the marble of the temple, as if he were a part of me. . .
"Open the door of the conclave to the Messenger, "I ordered the sky blue guards. The Dark messenger entered between the sky guards and clanked his staff as he climbed down the tiers of steps into the pit for the final confrontation.
When the Dark Messenger stood face to face. He clapped his stick against the floor as if to gain my attention.
"Dark Messenger," I addressed the soulless creature, "have you a report?"
"I have. On circuit of the realm, I left a trail of destruction as I had been instructed by the Great Prophet in Council."
I nodded. "Your report is received. You services are dispensed with." The Dark Messenger dissolved into the dust and scattered to the corners and crevices of the room, to await the time he might be needed to help in the selection of my successor.
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